


Victim of Order

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But I do wish to warn, Discussions of Past Abusive Relationships, Discussions of Self Harm, Heavy Angst, Inspired by Music, M/M, Queer Themes, Reichenbach Feels, Self-Acceptance, Submotion Orchestra, not as dark as it sounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caring was not an advantage. </p>
<p>Being clever, being physically aware- in tune- with oneself. Full mastery of one's being.</p>
<p>These things were.</p>
<p>Sherlock had never considered himself naive. Bit rouge, maybe. Bohemian. A man set in a time where he felt just a bit out of pace. Science was his god and his lab his alter that he worshiped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victim of Order

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the drop on this one, doves. 
> 
> I promise it's not as dark as the tags make it, but it will be heavy. This fic is completely inspired by the wonderful Submotion Orchestra and their two albums Alium and Finest Hour. 
> 
> It will be multiple chapter, but I will update between Fifty Shades of Desire and older works over the next few weeks. Love and Light~Bo

_"Hey sexy, come here." he'd said. "If you love me, you'd let me. You trust me, my clever boy, don't you? Yes? Then come here..."_

Caring was not an advantage. 

Being clever, being physically aware- in tune- with oneself. Full mastery of one's being.

These things were.

Sherlock had never considered himself naive. Bit rouge, maybe. Bohemian. A man set in a time where he felt just a bit out of pace. Science was his god and his lab his alter that he worshiped. He had no time for the flesh, it would always be greedy. Traveling to Tibet had been one of the best decisions he had made up to this point in his life. Learning to put 'self' away and just 'be'. To focus his mind and then release it to wander in his palace afterward to sift through what was learned. Categorise it. Place it where it belonged. Everything has a place in the cosmos, even detrus, because, it too, serves a purpose. Traveling to Paris, to learn ballet. To move with a different sort of precision and fluidity. Then Italy. Spain. Leaving lovers who taught him their skills of seduction without ever laying their hands against his body. This is where he learned he enjoyed the game, enjoyed watching. The dreams stopped haunting him. 

It was time to return to London, his mistress, his city. He would set her in his heart, let her vitality run through his veins. He'd never forget the cruelest intentions that had been set upon him in his youth, was at peace with it, as it too had taught him limitations. Set him on his path. Even knowing this, he hoped to never run into- him- ever again. 

The lab at Saint Bartholomew was perfect. The fact that Molly worked their now, even better. After a sizable donation towards updating their student as well as practical labs from one of the Holmes family accounts, of course he'd be welcomed. The idea of a genius in the ranks was welcome, as long as he every so often helped with some of their research, which he was more than willing to do as it would give him access to the morgue 'legitimately'. He'd need Molly to supervise, of course, but that was just fine with the both of them. Seemed she still had a crush from their days back at Cambridge, which, well he couldn't fault her for wanting him as a mate, as superior as he was in so many ways. Her instincts recognising that, even though she knew he was, well, not interested. Possibly one day, if she remained single, she was a good candidate for bearing children; clever, kind, persistent. Good traits in all. They had years yet to get one another, and she had yet to understand why he was so solidly within himself now, no longer the gangly youth she remembered. 

Doctor Michael Stamford, now there was an interesting fellow. Married to Lucy Stamford, nee Carroll. Two children after years of trying. Good for them, though Sherlock would need to remind him of his dietary intake from time to time if Michael wanted to see his children's children. Graceful, also kind, but there was a steel interior hidden that fascinated Sherlock. Regimental. Ex-military that had been stationed away from home, but had stayed in surgery, then came back to teach the next set of broodlings. Sedate, but enjoyed a bit of trouble in his youth. Possible good contact for other ex-military personnel. Liked a pub quiz with friends. Close knit with his family. Willing to look the other way at some of Sherlock's hours. Good wits about him. Friends with one Gregory Lestrade, DI at the Met. Brought him round one evening late to the lab completely off the books to get the man to discuss a case he couldn't crack. Michael knew he loved nothing more than knowledge. The pursuit of it, the purity.

Sherlock was allowed, unofficially from that case on, to have access to cold case files. Then current cases that were running a bit long in the tooth. Trivial ones, mainly theft. Then, after asking for more challenging cold cases, Gavin had given him a murder-suicide that was two years old that had never set right with him. It could have cost him his position, but he took a gamble. Continued to off and on. He now had The Work to give himself over to. Had found his higher calling that made his proverbial soul sing. Took his last hit of cocaine, just a bump, to finish the last few hours of the seventy six he'd been up. He hadn't planned on being kidnapped by idiots who then gave him more than a bump, razor edged clarity straight into his vein. Later Gavin told him that he'd OD'd, that the bastards who'd done it were in loads more trouble than they ever bargained for and were blubbering for their maternal figures. And that calling him Lestrade instead of butchering his given name was the best gift that Sherlock could ever give him. Next to staying the fuck alive and never pulling a stunt like that again. Well, two out of three was never considered terrible by most. Lestrade would simply have to enjoy what he received. 

From then on, in the following months, his life became steady, though his mind began racing once again. Montague, one of his established bolt holes in his city had come under surveillance by a particular undesirable so Sherlock felt it time to vacate said premises. Cultivate old 'friendships' as it were. He'd recently had tea with a client who had been living as an expat abroad, but had herself, recently returned home and had purchased an old renovated Victorian that had an attached deli close to the heart of it all. She was willing to reduce his rate since he had helped her and had previously refused payment for said deed. Paying it forward, or some such nonsense, she'd said. Good karma, all that. Mrs. Hudson also mentioned still worrying over her dead husband's ties; possible retribution though it had been practically ages in the criminal world. Still, he could see her point, so the next morning mentioned to Michael about needing a flatmate and did he have any mates that might like a quiet roof and home cooked meals. Someone who could survive Sherlock's lifestyle went unsaid. Michael had shook his head, but said he'd put out the word to a few trusted mates and get back to him. 

What a wonder ordinary people could be. How blind in their observance of others.


End file.
